Balliol
by Crookshanks22
Summary: The wizarding war casts long shadows over Samantha Clearwater's first term at Oxford.  A Muggle perspective on the summer and autumn of DH, with Penelope, Percy, and other wizarding characters in the background.
1. Chapter 1

Author note: This story builds on my previous Penelope Clearwater stories, "Details," "Muggle-Born," and "Long-Suffering Penelope," which I recommend reading first. For Pigspots, see "Muggle-Born"; for Penelope's relationship with Arthur, see "Long-Suffering Penelope." J.K. Rowling has given us conflicting indications about Penelope Clearwater's blood status in _Chamber of Secrets_ and _Deathly Hallows_. In this story, as in my earlier stories, Penelope is Muggle-born, and her experiences as a Muggle-born student at Hogwarts, and as a witch in an affluent, highly educated, and extremely successful London family, have played a pivotal role in shaping her character.

**Balliol**

"Samantha, where are those Hogwarts/ Pigspots stories you wrote, that first year you were at Roedean?"

Sprawled across the bed, immersed in an essay on polymerization, she doesn't bother to answer.

"Samantha?"

She looks up. "You're home early!" It is 2:15 on a Friday afternoon. Penelope's shift at the Ministry lasts until 4:30.

"I told them I had a migraine. Where are they?"

"You want to read them?" asks Samantha.

"No," says Penelope coolly. "I want to burn them."

"_Burn_ them?" Samantha would think it was a joke, except that Penelope has never gone in for such cold, wry humor. "B-But they're my stories!" she protests.

"Where are they?"

Samantha clambers down from the bed and removes a thick sheaf of manuscript from a desk drawer. She lays the manuscripts on the bed, sits on them, and looks inquiringly at her sister.

"Rufus Scrimgeour was murdered last night," says Penelope. "He's been replaced by Pius Thicknesse. Some people think Thicknesse is a Death Eater. Some people think he's been Imperiused. All I know is, he's hand in glove with Dolores Umbridge, and has been for years."

"That prissy old woman?"

"She's got a vendetta against Muggle-borns. And, I dare say, against Muggles. If she finds those stories on you, she'll accuse you of stealing magic."

"_Stealing_ _magic_?"

"Samantha, I don't want to see you in Azkaban." Penelope puts out her hand.

"I've never been able to do magic," protests Samantha, scrambling off the bed. "Anyway, it's just a fact, isn't it? Like gravity, or conservation of energy. It's not something you _own_."

"Don't ask for logic from Dolores Umbridge," says Penelope bitterly. "Samantha, I don't want to pull rank, but this is wizarding politics, and I understand it better than you do. It's for your own safety."

She gives up the stories. She follows Penelope across the hall to her cool white childhood bedroom under the eaves. A suitcase lies open on the floor. It's nearly full. In Penelope's fireplace, a fireplace that has not been used—except as an orifice of the Floo Network—in all of Samantha's eighteen years, a fire now burns merrily. Samantha's manuscripts are not the only things going up in smoke.

"You're burning books!" exclaims Samantha, turning to her sister in horror.

"I'm burning evidence," says Penelope tersely. "You'll be better off if it looks like a witch never lived here. The Ministry knows my home address. If they want to find you, they will. But if there's no magical equipment, no notes, no books, then you can just play dumb, and they'll be hard put to accuse you of stealing magic—they'll focus on bigger game—"

"Play dumb?" breathes Samantha. "What about you?"

"Go get _Hogwarts, A History_," says Penelope. "From your bookcase. And _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_." Samantha does not move. "Now!"

She fetches the books and hands them over. Penelope tosses them into the fire, and Samantha sniffs involuntarily. "I'll buy you new copies after the war," says Penelope.

"You're going to win the war?" asks Samantha.

"The Order of the Phoenix is going to win the war," says Penelope grimly, "but I can't say how long it will take. What else magical have you got in your bedroom?"

"That really old photograph of Percy," says Samantha unwillingly, "and the one of you in Hogsmeade. The map you drew of the village—"

"Get them. Just bring me everything. Did you keep any of my letters?"

There's no point saying no. Samantha goes to her bedroom and returns five minutes later carrying two photographs, a hand-drawn map, several letters, a Ravenclaw prefect badge, a small pot of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes ten-second pimple vanisher, and the end of a carton of Fizzing Whizbees. Penelope's dismantling her entire bedroom now. Notebooks, press cuttings, ragged quills. School robes, work robes, dress robes. Quidditch souvenirs, Spellotape, flash-boiling kettle. NEWT certificate, Apparition license, currency converter. Into the suitcase or into the fire.

Penelope tosses the letters and map into the fire without a second glance. She tears the label off the ten-second pimple vanisher and says, "You can empty this down the sink. Throw the jar away in a Tube station, or Kenwood Pond." The prefect badge won't burn; she chucks it into the suitcase. When she gets to the Fizzing Whizbees, she finally cracks a smile. "You can finish them if you like," she says, "and I'll burn the packaging."

Samantha stuffs two Fizzing Whizbees in her mouth. Penelope looks briefly at the photos, eyes watering. She hesitates. She casts them into the fire.

"Where are you going?" demands Samantha.

"Away. Abroad."

"Where?"

"It's safer if you just don't know."

"Why?"

"They'll try to interrogate—"

"No, why are you going?"

"If I stay they'll arrest me. Thicknesse and Umbridge."

"_Arrest_ you?"

"I'm a Muggle-born witch," says Penelope bitterly, "with a prize in Muggle Studies, working in a scantly supervised, Muggle-related job, and living in a Muggle household with a highly unorthodox Floo Connection—"

"That was authorized by the Ministry—"

"That was authorized by Cornelius Fudge, who was sacked a year ago. You do the math." Penelope sighs and leans against the corner of the bed frame. "I'm not leaving yet, Samantha. Nothing has officially happened yet. It could be a few days, a few weeks, a month even. But I want this house to be clean, absolutely clean, before I leave. As if a witch never lived here."

What a horrible thought, thinks Samantha. What a gaping hole to tear in her past.

"You're the one I'm most worried about," says Penelope. "Helena barely speaks to me anymore—no one would make the mistake of thinking she's trying to steal magic. Alan's been away, and Dad still thinks that faulty cabling caused the Brockdale Bridge collapse. But you and Mummy have both been to Diagon Alley—and to the Ministry. Which is not technically permitted. I bent the rules. Whatever possessed me—"

Samantha says coldly, "I wanted to go."

"If someone comes to interrogate you—" Samantha looks up. "My advice is to tell the absolute truth but as little of the truth as possible. Be noncommittal. Don't give details. Don't think about magic, don't think about Diagon Alley, and especially don't think about anything you saw inside the Ministry. There's such a thing as Legilimency, you know." Samantha nods. "I don't know when it will be, or who it will be. Whoever it is will present himself as a friend—" Samantha nods again. Penelope stabs the fire with a poker. "You're in the most danger because you're the one who knows the most. If I thought you would come with me—"

"I'm going to Oxford," says Samantha hollowly. "To take up my Exhibition, remember?"

"It's just as well," mutters Penelope. "I don't know how to hide someone who isn't magic. I barely know how to hide myself. You'll be all right," she says in a firmer tone, every inch the big sister. "We're all going to be all right."

Samantha nods. She sits beside the suitcase and silently watches Penelope burn the remnants of her girlhood.


	2. Chapter 2

[2

On Monday morning, Samantha sits in the dining room, reading the Gödelian section of Raymond Smullyan's _To Mock a Mockingbird_ over coffee and toast. She reads slowly and repetitively, fiddling with the coffee spoon. She has not been concentrating well this weekend. She has not been taking much in.

"Samantha, maybe you shouldn't read at the breakfast table," says Mummy, as Samantha upsets the butter dish for the second time.

"You're reading," points out Samantha.

"Just the newspaper. You find that mathematical novel a little too engrossing."

"Well, your work is just as concerned with current events as mine is with combinatory logic—more, actually—"

"Samantha, I'm just saying you're too old to be so—"

The telephone rings. Penelope dashes to the hall. Samantha puts down her book and listens. She makes no more pretense of trying to read, but Penelope's tone is noncommittal, and she can't hear much. When Penelope returns, she clears her place. She hugs her mother and, somewhat unusually, kisses her on the cheek and says "Good luck at the library, Mum." Mum grunts. Penelope raises her eyebrows to Samantha, who grabs her book and follows her upstairs.

"Who was it?" she asks, as soon as they're out of Mum's earshot.

"No comment."

"Was it work?"

"Oh, yes," says Penelope sarcastically. "Minister Thicknesse thinks Muggles are one step above cockroaches in the food chain, but he just can't get by with a telephone. The first thing he did on entering office was revamp the Ministry phone tree."

There's something badly wrong if Penelope's being sarcastic at 7:30 in the morning. "Was it Viola?" inquires Samantha. Viola is Penelope's politically-minded friend on the Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee.

"No comment." So it was Viola.

"You're leaving today?" continues Samantha doggedly, as they reach the top landing.

"Thicknesse made a move last night," says Penelope. "He appointed Dolores Umbridge to head up something called the Muggle-born Registration Commission—this is for you," she adds, pulling a thin file folder from her desk and handing it to Samantha. Samantha opens it.

"Oh, Penelope, you need your credit card!"

"It's traceable," points out Penelope. "Look, I'll be fine. I withdrew most of my gold ten days ago. I told the goblins I was putting a down payment on a house—"

"And they believed you?"

Penelope shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm covered. Goblins don't care for wizards much, and they're likely to be hostile to the new administration, as it's full of people who're hostile to them. They won't volunteer any information they don't need to, and by the time Umbridge and Thicknesse realize my gold is missing, I'll be—"

"Where?"

"Elsewhere," says Penelope softly.

"How will you live?"

"Cheaply," says Penelope, "and carefully. And mostly in solitude. I could pass for a Muggle, couldn't I?"

"You'll need this, though," announces Samantha, lifting Penelope's passport out of the file folder. Penelope shakes her head. "You're staying in the E.U.?"

"Not necessarily. But I don't want to take anything that says 'Penelope Clearwater.'"

"Your Apparition license and your NEWT certificate—"

"I changed the name on them. At first I thought I would do the same to my passport, but it's got a number and a microchip, and anyone who put it through a computer would realize at once that it was faked. So I decided—"

"Still—Penelope—you have to have some form of ID. Something Muggle—"

"It's okay," says Penelope. "Ki—well, never mind who. Someone I know in the Auror Office distributed blank identity cards to all the Muggle-borns who work in the Ministry. Just in case."

"Where'd he get those?" demands Samantha.

"The prime minister."

"Wait—_our_ prime . . .?"

Penelope nods.

Samantha reapplies herself to the file folder, with a sinking feeling that she is confronting waters much deeper and murkier than she at first imagined. Muggle bank records. Brokerage accounts. They each inherited a small sum from their Hume grandparents, and Penelope's investments have clearly done well. National Health Service documents . . . She holds up a torn sheet of loose leaf paper.

"That's the username and password for my e-mail account," says Penelope. "I don't think you'll need them, but—"

"No e-mail?" says Samantha incredulously, the anger rising in her voice. "Surely, _surely_ Dolores Umbridge and Pius Thicknesse do not know how to use e-mail? You said yourself that Thicknesse won't even use the telephone—"

"Umbridge and Thicknesse don't know how to use e-mail," agrees Penelope. "Nor, I dare say, do the Death Eaters. But if even one person in Muggle relations goes over—"

"But they're all Muggle-borns, like you and Viola—"

"Not all. It's, maybe, fifty-fifty. And there are—well, suffice it to say, there a couple of wizards on the Muggle-Worthy Excuses Committee that Viola wouldn't trust with her life. It _may_ be safe," says Penelope. "I'm not saying that it isn't. But it would be foolish to take all these precautions, and then risk everything on the assumption that Ministry staffers can't read my e-mail. Or yours," she adds as an afterthought.

"But—will I hear from you?" Samantha asks timidly.

Penelope bites her lip. "If I can think of a way. But for now, until the political situation becomes clearer—probably not." She looks slowly around her bedroom, like a business traveler sweeping a hotel room for forgotten property. "I wish I had a pair of portraits."

"Whatever for?"

"Witches and wizards can travel between their portraits and convey messages. I could take one, and leave the other, hidden somewhere—except that you're going to Oxford soon. And Helena's in Newcastle, and Alan's got his own flat now, and Mum and Dad are staying here. We'd need five portraits, wouldn't we, and no responsible witch would let any Muggle relative of hers be caught with—never mind. It was a stupid idea."

Samantha says nothing. She thinks suddenly of the passengers aboard the "unsinkable" _Titanic_, stumbling up to the Boat Deck in fur coats and bedroom slippers, not quite believing the rumors, there to see the ship's officers launching flares into the cold dark April sky. She can almost feel the ship listing starboard. Somehow disaster never seems real until it's almost too late.

"I know they're going to give you a hard time," expostulates Penelope, chucking her own bedroom slippers into her suitcase and grabbing a pair of shoes. "Someone is going to come and interrogate—just tell me you won't be too brave."

"What if Percy comes?" interrupts Samantha.

"Percy?"

"Percy."

Penelope hesitates. "Tell him I'm safe. And out of the country. And stop there."

"But Percy's on our side, isn't he?"

Penelope looks at the worn white rug. "I don't know. I really don't know."

"He loved you, Penny—"

"I've seen him once in the last three years," says Penelope crisply. "I—I don't believe he would turn me in, but he was always so rules-oriented—and even if he crosses the Ministry, he'll be dangerous to consort with."

"Why?" demands Samantha. "I thought he was a pureblood."

Penelope sighs, chucking her wallet and the book from her nightstand into a handbag. "Did I ever mention the term 'blood traitor'?"

"You said some people thought your friend Arthur was a blood traitor. They thought that's why he wanted to be friends with you. That—what's his name, Dawlish?—said Arthur had a 'Muggle fixation.'"

"There's a lot of 'blood traitor' talk going around right now," warns Penelope. "Percy's in a vulnerable position. His background is—" She zips up the suitcase. "If he changes track, it won't be long before someone labels him a blood traitor. The only thing protecting him right now is his insane love for the Ministry and," she adds bitterly, "for following the rules."

Samantha senses that she's missing something, but before she can guess what it is, Penelope rights her suitcase, hugs her, and whispers, "Take care of yourself, Samantha. I wish there was more I could do."

"You've done enough," says Samantha in a small voice. Penelope hugs her again. And disapparates. Her cool white bedroom lies bare and anonymous, as if a witch never lived there.


	3. Chapter 3

-3-

He apparates directly into the dining room, and her mother screams. Samantha, who is setting the table for dinner, drops the soupspoons on the tablecloth, grabs a steak knife, and edges between her mother and the unknown wizard.

"Where's Penny?" he demands, and she sees that he is Percy. Thinner than ever, almost haggard, in rumpled robes and smudgy spectacles, but still, indubitably, Percy.

"She's not here," says Samantha firmly, lowering the steak knife but not relaxing her grip.

"Where is she? Mrs. Clearwater, I'm sorry to disturb you, but I must ask—"

"Don't ask her," interrupts Samantha. "My parents don't know anything. She's not here—"

"What the hell is going on in here?" inquires Dad, storming in from the study.

"Mr. Clearwater—Dr. Clearwater—I need to find your daughter—"

"She's off with your lot," says Dad truculently. "She didn't have the grace to tell us where, or when she'd return, or even that she was going." He glares at Samantha, who has been persona non grata all week because she was the one member of the family who did know that Penelope was leaving, and she didn't make her stay.

"Dr. Clearwater," says Percy, "Mrs.—I mean, also Dr. Clearwater, Samantha, I cannot impress upon you too firmly the gravity of the situation. The new administration has issued a decree requesting all Muggle-born witches and wizards to register with the Ministry and submit to questioning. The first announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ said 'interview,' but it's not . . it's actually . . . In ordinary circumstances, of course, I would encourage your daughter to cooperate fully and frankly with the Ministry—but it's been a strange sort of summer—and . . . off the record, there's been talk of internment. I can't in good conscience . . ."

"She's abroad," says Samantha suddenly. The words plop down like snowflakes, bringing a tiny measure of grace and calm to the hysterical scene between Percy and Dad.

"Thank God," breathes Percy.

"She is?" snorts Dad.

"Are you absolutely, entirely certain of that?" demands Percy.

"Yes," says Samantha, who is only nine-tenths certain but senses that "yes" is the safest thing to say. "She went abroad. She didn't tell me where. As you can see, my parents know even less than I do—"

"When did she leave?" interrupts Percy.

The Clearwaters look at each other, tacitly deferring to Samantha. "Don't knock over the crystal decanter," mutters Dad. "My wife is attached to it. Stop fidgeting, and control your wand."

"Was it Monday?" demands Percy, edging away from the sideboard. "No one's seen her all week. I've been . . . she's on the short list of Ministry employees who haven't reported . . . I went to her office this afternoon, and Perkins told me that she owled in Monday that she was suffering from a bout of incompatible charms malaise, and was going to try to see a Healer at St. Mungo's, and thought she'd be out sick for at least two days. When she didn't turn up on Wednesday, he Flooed St. Mungo's and found out she'd never been there at all—but by then the political situation was heating up, and Perkins didn't want to turn her in, so he decided to just lie low until someone asked him about it—"

"She left on Monday," confirms Samantha. Penelope didn't authorize her to say this, but how much harm can it do if he already knows?

"The Ministry may send someone to question you about her whereabouts. As of next Monday, Madam Umbridge will be issuing search warrants for the dwellings of all Muggle-born Ministry employees who haven't turned themselves in. Dr. Clearwater, may I have your permission to search the house for magical artifacts that might compromise you or her?"

"She took all that garbage with her," says Dad. "Her bedroom is as bare as—." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"I'll search with magic," announces Percy, brandishing his wand. "It's more thorough than a visual search."

"Do whatever you like," mutters Dad. "Just don't make a mess, and please relieve us of your company as soon as possible." He pats Mum ineffectually on the back and saunters out to the kitchen, muttering, "I wish to God I'd never heard of magic. We should have sent her to Roedean . . ."

Samantha follows Percy out of the dining room. "Accio magical objects!" he cries, waving his wand in the drawing room. Nothing happens. "Accio magical objects!" he cries, waving his wand in Mum's study. Nothing happens. "Accio magical objects!" he cries, waving his wand in her parents' bedroom. Nothing happens. "She really did sweep it clean," he comments to Samantha, with a curious note of pride in his voice.

"There was nothing to sweep," asserts Samantha. "Mum and Dad have never allowed any magical objects anywhere downstairs. They don't allow Penelope to cast spells downstairs, either. They _really_ have_ nothing_ to do with magic."

"Samantha," says Percy, laying a hand on her shoulder, "I know your sister. I've known her for years. I know that you were her friend, and your parents were not—supportive." She surveys him stonily and wonders if this is kindness, or a veiled threat. She left the steak knife downstairs.

"This is our brother Alan's old room," announces Samantha, opening another door, "and you can search it if you want to, but you're not going to find anything."

"Accio magical objects!" cries Percy. Nothing happens.

"Do you want to search the loo?" asks Samantha drily.

"I'd like to search _your_ room," retorts Percy. Samantha leads the way upstairs.

Percy searches her room, the box room, Penelope's room. They are clean, clean, clean.

"She did a good job," says Percy, gazing around Penelope's barren white bedroom. "She's a very smart girl, your sister. I wish—she's really abroad?"

"Yes," says Samantha firmly.

Percy hesitates and then says, in an anguished tone, "Samantha, I don't know how much you're not telling me, and I'm not going to embarrass you by asking where she is. But if you're in touch with your sister, tell her to stay there. As far away as possible. I'm very sorry to say it—I've never spoken ill of the Ministry—but I think . . . the new Minister . . . may be taking an irresponsible line . . ." He adds, so softly that Samantha can hardly hear it, "Damn the whole concept of blood."

"You waited four days to warn her," points out Samantha. "The trials have already started, right? You waited four days. As far as you're concerned, she could—"

"Samantha—"

"Good thing she wasn't depending on you," sniffs Samantha.

"I've been looking for her all week!" protests Percy, gesticulating so wildly that he nearly drops his wand. "You don't realize how dangerous it is! She wasn't at work, and I couldn't ask questions, because I didn't want anyone to know I was looking for her. I thought about Flooing her, but the Floo Network is being watched, and—finally I decided to risk Perkins, because I've known him since I was a kid, and he—come to think of it—" He breaks off and points him wand at the fireplace. After several swipes and swishes, he turns to Samantha and says, "I thought your sister had a Floo connection."

"She does."

"Which fireplace?"

"That one."

"No," says Percy. "It's been disconnected."

"Penelope must have done it before she left," says Samantha, adding, a little smugly, "She was very thorough."

"Penny couldn't have done it," objects Percy. "The Floo Network is under strict central supervision. Only a member of the Floo Network Authority could have disconnected it, and in any case, all adjustments to Floo connections in Muggle buildings have to be approved by either the Head of Magical Transport or the Minister himself. She doesn't have any friends on the Floo Regulatory Board, does she?"

"I don't think so," says Samantha slowly, thinking that even if Penelope did, she would hardly expose them to Percy. "Penelope doesn't have many friends at the Ministry, and most of the friends she does have work in Muggle relations. Oh, and she knows some people in Improper Use of Magic, of course—"

Percy blanches and stares with renewed chagrin at the fireplace.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just remembered someone Penny knows who has a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel."

"Is it safe? Is he reliable?"

"Yes," mutters Percy. "I dare say he is."

"Percy," says Samantha, "how bad is it, really? What's happening to the people they catch?"

"Their wands are being confiscated," he says slowly, "and those who are perceived as significant threats are being interned . . ."

"Penelope's never been interested in politics—she's never—"

"But she works at the Ministry. And she has a lot to do with Muggles. They caught Viola Merton. She splinched herself when she was trying to flee. Umbridge booted her up to the top of the hearings list, because she was in a Muggle-related job and might, supposedly, have disseminated Ministry secrets to Muggles. Those are the ones who are really at risk—those in sensitive jobs. If Penelope were a shop assistant or a barmaid," sighs Percy, "this would be so much less worrisome . . ."

"Are blood traitors also at risk?" inquires Samantha.

"_Blood traitors_?" asks Percy incredulously. "Did your sister teach you to talk like that?"

"She has a friend she's been worried about," says Samantha. "Arthur something-or-other. He's an older man—I don't mean an old man, just older than us—and he works with fake Dark detectors or something like that. Penelope says he's—" She breaks off, suddenly realizing that it may not be a good idea to tell Percy everything that Penelope suspects that Arthur has been up to. But Percy is staring blankly out Penelope's window into the gnarled branches of an oak tree. "Penelope was always worried that the Ministry might give him a hard time for being a 'blood traitor,'" she finishes lamely. "I—do you even know him?"

"My entire family is going to be 'given a hard time' before this administration is through," says Percy, as if a million miles away. "He let them in for it—he's the one who started the family's association with Dumbledore—he and my Prewett uncles, and _they're_ already dead. If he'd made a mark at the Ministry, if he'd made people take him seriously, he might have more influence now, and the Ministry wouldn't be prosecuting—I mean, I never expected him to save the world, I just wanted to have a family I could be proud—"

"Percy?" whispers Samantha. "Percy, who is Arthur?"

"He's my father," mutters Percy. "I know your sister didn't put up any Anti-Apparition wards downstairs. Did she put them up here?"

"N-no," stutters Samantha.

"Good. Take care of yourself. Don't tell anyone where your sister is. Don't tell anyone I was here. If I learn anything, I'll be in touch."

He takes a deep breath and disapparates. Samantha stares after him and wonders why her sister never told her that Percy was Arthur's son.


	4. Chapter 4

-4-

Summer wilts like a strangled bud in the grasp of a Whitehall meltdown and a strong north wind. No word comes from Penelope, and after a few weeks Samantha ceases to expect it. In her own small bedroom under the eaves, she lays open a suitcase of her own and goes cheerlessly about the process of packing for Balliol.

In college, she tries to fix her mind on the tutorial advice about Prelims that is being dispensed to her in an airy, book-lined study. Organic chemistry. Inorganic chemistry. Physical chemistry. Mathematics for chemistry. "Mathematics for chemistry" sounds awfully dull to Samantha. She quietly points out that she is the sister, daughter, and granddaughter of mathematicians, and that she got an A-star in Further Maths. It's no go, says her tutor. She will have to take mathematics for chemistry. She can specialize in her fourth year, the tutor says. That's why she's doing an M.Chem. degree, so that there's a fourth year for research. Samantha capitulates without argument. The Cabinet's a shambles, the Underground's been bombed again, and fourth year sounds very far away.

The flyer in her pigeon hole is vague. _Elevated murder rate. Unknown perpetrators. Undetermined cause of death. Appear to be targeting residents of the City of Oxford . . . nevertheless, the Corporation advises . . ._ Samantha chucks it away.

Helena has almost disappeared from her life, but Alan, after ignoring her for the better part of eighteen years, now rings her four times a week. He calls from chambers on his lunch break, from his tiny flat at midnight, from the Tube at 8 a.m. Their conversations are comically opaque. "Have you heard?" "No. Has anyone come to see you?" "You mean—" "Yes." "There was a bloke who came to my flat last Saturday, but he gave up very easily. They sent another team to Mum and Dad's—" "A team?" "Two people. A man and a woman. Not the same two as last time." "She's abroad, you know." "You don't know where?" "I don't even know that she made it. But she said she was going abroad . . ." Poking a pencil in her notebook, she wonders, Paris? Rennes? Tibet? Polynesia? Penelope said, somewhere cheap.

When she returns from the shower on Sunday morning, one week into Michaelmas term, there's an apparition in her bedsit, and she almost screams, but an all too solid hand claps itself firmly over her mouth and a not unfamiliar voice whispers, "Samantha, hush. _Muffliato_!"

"My God, Percy!" she cries as he releases her. "What happened to you?"

"I'm Disillusioned." "About time," she thinks, and then she realizes that he merely means he's see-through. His hands are the color of her curtains, his face as mottled as the Degas poster above her bed. "It's just a security measure," he adds. "Probably unnecessary. Don't let it worry you."

"What are you doing here?"

"I—I wanted to check on you. I'm going to put up Anti-Apparition wards, and a Hex Alarm, if you don't mind."

"What's that?"

"Anti-Apparition wards—"

"I know what those are. What's a Hex Alarm?"

"It's an alarm that will go off if anyone tries to do magic in your room. There's no way of preventing magic, I'm afraid, but this will provide a modicum of security if you receive unwelcome—"

"Where's the alarm?" demands Samantha. "Where will it go off?"

Percy looks a little sheepish, then pulls off one of his loafers. "It's in my shoe."

Samantha sits down on the edge of the bed, pulling her dressing gown more tightly around her. "Why, Percy? What's wrong?"

"The Ministry authorized the Trace on Penelope. You needn't worry about that. That's been done to all of the Muggle-borns who declined to turn themselves in. And it doesn't really matter, because the Ministry can't find her anyway. That was a bit of a surprise. Most Muggle-borns who didn't report have been pretty easy to find—the Ministry is sweeping the country, not to mention the Snatchers—but there hasn't been a single sighting of your sister. The Muggle-born Registration Committee has figured out that she was tipped off early, and Umbridge thinks she isn't working alone. So she's inclined to do an extra-thorough investigation. Which means, I'm afraid, that you may have some callers. Please, if you don't mind, refrain from telling them that I was here."

Samantha nods. Percy puts up the Anti-Apparition wards. He does something to the windows that, he alleges, will make them curse-proof, "but it's an Experimental Charm, so don't place too much faith in it." He installs the Hex Alarm.

"By the way," says Percy, when he's finished, "I have a present for you." He pulls out a large, mannish wristwatch, and Samantha's first reaction is that she wouldn't be caught dead with such a contraption on her wrist.

"It's a Sneakoscope," says Percy proudly. "I transfigured it to look like an authentic Muggle wristwatch, so that it will blend into the rest of your wardrobe. I want you to wear it every time you leave this room." Samantha tries to think of an item in her wardrobe that would complement this wristwatch. She fails. "See the third hand?" asks Percy.

"Yes."

"It appears to indicate seconds. But it's actually a Dark Detector. When it's at six, you're in the clear. Twelve means danger near at hand. It won't provide any protection, but it will allow you to monitor your surroundings, and I'll feel better . . ."

"How many of these are you giving out?" inquires Samantha.

"Only one," says Percy hesitantly. "I don't think your parents would accept Sneakoscopes—" Samantha smiles—"and they probably don't need them anyway. I gather Umbridge has already had the house searched, twice. She's less concerned with tangible evidence now, and more concerned with Penny's political affiliations, and who tipped her off. . ."

"I really don't know anything," asserts Samantha. "I really, really don't."

"That's probably just as well," says Percy, "but I'm not the person you need to tell that to. Now, about this visit. Do you want a Memory Charm?"

"No."

"It might be safer."

"No." Samantha is getting very tired of hearing that it's safer for her not to know. "What happened to Viola Merton?" she asks dully.

"She's in custody."

"In Azkaban?"

"In a camp, I think. There was a second hearing last week, and she lost her job. They're advertising for a replacement in the _Daily Prophet_."

This aspect of the situation had not previously occurred to Samantha. "Penelope's job—"

"It's been eliminated," says Percy. "The entire office has been eliminated. The registration and hearings are taking up a great deal of manpower, so the Ministry's short-staffed, and the Minister decided that it didn't really matter if a few Muggles were tormented by disappearing keys . . ."

"Your father?" inquires Samantha.

"He's still at large. Still working at the Ministry. I don't know why, exactly . . . I almost wonder if the Ministry is tracking him, in hopes that he'll lead them to some of the so-called Undesirables . . ."

"Undesirables?"

"It's Minister Thicknesse's term for people who aren't cooperating with the Ministry. They're listed in several tiers, and the top dozen have ranks, from one to twelve. My father knows most of the people on the numbered list. He probably _will_ lead Thicknesse to some of them, if he isn't careful . . . but I suppose he's dodged the wand so far . . ." Percy trails off, then pulls himself together and says, "Don't worry, Samantha. Your sister's not on the numbered list. She's just on the ordinary list of Muggle-born witches and wizards who haven't reported to the Ministry."

"But you think Umbridge is targeting Muggle-borns who worked for the Ministry," points out Samantha. "Especially in jobs that entailed regular contact with Muggles."

"Yes," admits Percy.

"Have you actually spoken to your father?"

"No. What earthly good would that do?"

"I don't always adore _my_ father," points out Samantha, "but I do speak to him. I don't tell him everything, but I do keep in touch."

"Your father's not trying to overthrow the government," points out Percy.

My sister is, thinks Samantha. But no, of course, she's not—she's safely concealed in Port-au-Prince or Timbuktu. Or is she? Never in her life has she known so little of her sister's doings. Never has she gone two months without an owl.

"I need to disapparate," says Percy. "I can't do it here, on account of the wards. Can you show me to another room that's private, or at least empty? Put on the Sneakoscope first!" he admonishes her.

She tosses her sponge bag on the desk and fastens the Sneakoscope to her wrist. Damp dark curls still dripping down the neck of her dressing gown, she leads him up to the bathroom on the next landing. He disapparates. Samantha gazes fretfully at the Sneakoscope and wonders whether it is what he says it is and whether it is wise to wear a device that could—if Percy is lying—give a Ministry staff member an easy means of tracking her every move. She has no one to talk to now, and it's the devil's own choice, what to do.


	5. Chapter 5

-5-

Roedean was a girls' school. At Oxford, she has a social life—for about five minutes, until fear intervenes. She looks at the boys in her lectures, in the O.U.D.S., in the J.C.R., the well-scrubbed, wholesomely geeky nineteen-year-old boys from Holy Cross and Manchester Grammar, Harrow and St. Paul's, and she thinks over and over again, "Is he a wizard? Is he a Death Eater? Is he a Ministry spy? That one seems too normal to be real . . . and that one seems too good to be true . . ." She fingers the Sneakoscope concealed beneath the cuff of an outsized cardigan jumper. It registers nothing, but she's still not entirely sure whether she trusts Percy's account of the device. She refuses single dates and sticks rigidly to group outings. Whenever possible, she takes refuge in her bedsit, with its Hex Alarm and Anti-Apparition wards.

He creeps up so stealthily that she doesn't realize he is there. The third hand of the Sneakoscope is pointing to eleven when the stranger says, "Miss Clearwater? Jean-Benoit de Sangbleu. Security Services," he adds, flashing a badge. "Will you join me for a cup of coffee? I have a few questions to ask you."

He is much younger than she imagined, not over twenty-five. He could be a student himself. He buys her a cappuccino with Muggle money; she is surprised by his dexterity with the bank notes. With old-fashioned courtliness, he trails her into the soggy, windswept garden behind the little teashop, carrying her coffee cup. He does something with his wand, under his jacket, and she thinks "Muffliato," and then she remembers that she's not supposed to think.

Clear mind. Yes. Covalent bonding. Think about molecules.

"You have a sister, Miss Clearwater?"

"I have two sisters," she says warily.

"You have a sister who has been living as a witch for several years."

She inclines her head.

"She's been reported missing. The Ministry is very concerned about her." Samantha stirs her cappuccino. "I need you to tell me where she is."

"I don't know."

"I think you do, Miss Clearwater."

"I think she's abroad."

"She wasn't scheduled for a vacation. She took her holidays at the end of June, to attend _your_ prize-giving, or so her colleagues understood."

"She said," says Samantha firmly, "that she was going abroad. I know very little of her work, or when her vacations were scheduled. But she said she was going abroad."

"I visited your parents last week," says Sangbleu, changing tack. "Charming people. Lovely house. It puzzled me a bit." Samantha purses her lips and regards her cappuccino. "We've found that theft of magic is most common among Muggles who are impoverished or socially insecure. Sometimes multiple members of the same family attempt to appropriate magical power. Your sister doesn't fit the profile."

"Penelope never tried to appropriate anything in her life," asserts Samantha. "I don't think she even likes that side of herself very much."

"Do you think she might be the victim of a curse?" inquires Sangbleu conversationally. "It would explain why she doesn't fit the profile. Perhaps some rogue wizard forced magical power on her against her will. It's happened before," he assures her. "If you could just help me find her, I might be able to—"

"I don't know where she is," says Samantha coldly. "She told me she was going abroad."

"If you can't help me," says Sangbleu dreamily, "I'll have to follow up the clues I found in your parents' home. Lovely home, it is, too," he adds. "I did a NEWT in Muggle Studies, and it was a joy to see so many top-of-the-line Muggle devices in use. A food processor! A DVD player!"

"I didn't realize the present administration encouraged such connoisseurship," says Samantha dryly. The words are barely out of her mouth when she realizes that it is probably unwise to betray any knowledge, however slight, of the inclinations of the Thicknesse administration. Fortunately, Sangbleu doesn't seem to notice.

"And the computers!" he exclaims. "I believe I counted four computers, including a kneetop!"

"Laptop," mutters Samantha. "Very likely. They get obsolete pretty quickly, you know."

"It may be a difficult task, tracing your sister," warns Sangbleu. "Though not an unpleasant one, if," he smirks, "she's as handsome as you."

Samantha rolls her eyes. "We are generally held to resemble each other," she allows. "We both favor our father's side of the family."

"In the meantime," says Sangbleu, "damage control. Surely you have realized—smart girl that you are—that the blurring of lines between the Muggle and magical worlds endangers your entire family. Why, it wasn't long ago that Muggle governments were burning witches—"

"Three and a half centuries," interjects Samantha.

"Still, the climate might change," maintains Sangbleu. "It's not only your sister who's in danger. She's tainted your entire family by association. Now, we've found that Muggle-borns who cross to the magical world, even unwillingly, as you imply your sister did, are rather careless with classified information. Perhaps she's kept notes? Or a diary?"

Samantha shakes her head.

"Tapes?" says Sangbleu. "Video?" He sounds the word out slowly, as if uncertain of the pronunciation. "Did she ever make up stories?"

Did she ever—oh, God. Samantha tries to suppress the image, but it forces its way into her consciousness. The back-up disk. Penelope burned the hard copies, but not using computers routinely, she neglected to inquire about the back-up disk, and Samantha was so preoccupied—

"Miss Clearwater?"

Oh, God. Surely he didn't find the back-up disk? If he did—but she's got to say something. Quickly, now. "Penelope's not much of a writer. She's written essays, of course, and memos, but never stories."

He plainly does not believe her. Is he just reacting to the unfortunate pause, or does he actually know?

"Every child writes stories," says Sangbleu. "Going off to Hogwarts must have been traumatic for your sister, especially if—as you maintain—she went unwillingly. She might have been tempted to write stories, or a journal, by way of therapy—or perhaps she actually spoke to a therapist, and divulged—"

"Penelope's never seen a therapist," asserts Samantha.

It goes on, and on, and on. He keeps harping on the diary, and the stories. He knows there's something written down, but—small consolation—he doesn't seem to know what it is. She blushes and plays with her coffee cup with coyly downcast eyes, which is good cover for not looking at him, because she knows—Penelope told her—that eye contact is essential for Legilimency, and she can't keep the back-up disk out of her mind. He doesn't inquire about the possibility of a book manuscript, which is just as well, but she can't keep that from her mind either, and she wonders, did Penelope take it with her, or have its ashes mingled with the sodden ashes of her own stories in the fourth-floor fireplace? At last Sangbleu gathers up his notes and says, "Thank you, Miss Clearwater, for _trying_ to assist me. May I escort you home?"

"I've got a lecture," says Samantha stiffly. Her protests notwithstanding, he escorts her to the steps of the lecture hall, talking cheerfully of Muggle fantasy films and their lack of verisimilitude. She wonders, once or twice, if Magical Security knows he talks this way to Muggle girls.

"Au revoir, Miss Clearwater."

"It seems very unlikely that we'll meet again," observes Samantha.

He smiles rather nastily. "Oh, Miss Clearwater, don't be so sure."

The memory of the computer disk gnaws at her all day. She considers decamping to London for a night, but it's mid-week, still early in the term, and her days are tightly scheduled with lectures and labs. When she finally gets home, she goes straight to the JCR and rings Alan's mobile. He picks up. "Alan?" she asks, one hand muffling her mouth. "Is there somewhere I can ring you that's not your office number or you home number or your mobile?"

"I don't think my line is tapped," says Alan.

"I don't think so either, but we need to be careful. These people may know more about technology than we realized."

"Sam? Has something happened?"

"Yes. Not much. But is there somewhere you can—"

"I'm still at work," says Alan. "I suppose I could use my friend Rupert's line. I think he's gone home for the day."

"Great," says Samantha. "I'm in the JCR, not my own room. Call me here."

She hangs up and waits. Three minutes later, the phone rings and she snatches up the receiver. "Turns out Rupert's still here," announces Alan. "He lent me his mobile. What's up?"

"I need you to go to Mum and Dad's," says Samantha. "In my bedroom, in the second desk drawer, in back, there's a box of old computer disks. You need to find the one labeled 'Roedean U4.'"

"Do you want me to send it to you?"

"No. Put it in a computer and wipe it. Then throw the disk away in a Tube station, or Highgate Pond." She braces for the big brotherly mockery she knows so well, the "Are you James Bond?" sarcasm. But it doesn't come.

"I'll do it," says Alan, immediately. "And then I'll send—when you get an e-mail asking if I should get my hair cut, that means it's done."

"Thank you."

"Sam, what happened? Did someone come to interrogate you?"

"Yes. It wasn't too bad. I just realized—he might know about this disk. And if he doesn't, he shouldn't, so it needs to be destroyed before anyone comes to the house again. Thanks so much, Alan."

Six hours later, she has her e-mail message. Two days after that, when she comes home from the science library, there's a small round package in her pigeon hole. She opens it. It is a powder compact, daintily carved in rose quartz. Concealed inside is a narrow strip of paper with a typewritten note: _If you need me, say Pigspots._

Samantha carries the package gingerly across the quad, more worried than comforted by the gift. In her room, she holds it close to the Sneakoscope. She unstraps the Sneakoscope and lays it right on top of the compact. It registers nothing. She has been more favorably disposed to the Sneakoscope ever since the Sneakoscope registered its objections to Jean-Benoit de Sangbleu, but she still doesn't know how it works, or whether it responds to unreliable objects as well as unreliable people.

Penelope never told anyone about Pigspots. She always said it was their secret, hers and Samantha's, a private joke that would have to be concealed from magical security. It is entirely possible that Penelope, if she wished to send Samantha an unsigned message, would use Pigspots to signal from whom it came. But it is also possible that Sangbleu, in searching their parents' home, ran across Samantha's computer disks. And she realizes now, unhappily, that it is by no means impossible that Sangbleu knows what computer disks are for, and decided to have a look.

She gazes around her little bedsit and considers. On the whole, it seems unlikely that the compact is explosive or flammable. Its dangerous qualities, if dangerous qualities it has, lie elsewhere. She doesn't want to discard it or destroy it, lest it come from Penelope. But she doesn't want to use it, lest it come from Sangbleu. In the end she snaps it shut and shoves it into her lingerie drawer. She examines the note minutely, memorizes it, cogitates on it, but she gets nowhere. Before she goes to bed, she tears the paper to bits and flushes it down the loo.

Samantha spent her entire A-levels year imagining what Oxford would be like. She never imagined this.


	6. Chapter 6

-6-

In the weeks that follow, Samantha sees entirely too much of Jean-Benoit de Sangbleu. He swoops down on her in Broad Street, in the Cornmarket, in Blackwells, and in the Parks. More than once, he is lying in wait for her when she emerges from college in the morning. He carries her off for lunch, for tea, and for drinks. She tries to say "no," but the word doesn't seem to be in his vocabulary, and she is afraid to protest too much lest he conclude that she is concealing information. He talks to her more than he questions, loquaciously, flirtatiously, and seemingly—but only seemingly—at random. He is constantly seeking to surprise her into minor revelations. A-star in Further Maths notwithstanding, she has never understood combinatorics so well as she does this autumn.

The nadir comes when the fluffy little Modern Languages student across the hall stops by one evening to borrow a roll of cellotape and says, "Oh, by the way, I saw your boyfriend this afternoon, walking in St. Giles. I waved, but I don't think he recognized me."

"Boyfriend?" says Samantha.

"The French bloke? In the leather jacket? He's a bit older than you, isn't he? Is he on a postgraduate course, or is he a townie?"

"Neither," says Samantha firmly. "And he's not my boyfriend. Just someone I can't get rid of."

"Well," says Trina, handing back the cellotape, "I don't think you're doing a very good job . . . "

Samantha shuts the door thinking that she's going to murder Jean-Benoit next time she sees him, not just for his tedious interrogations, dastardly politics, and oily condescension, but also for his exhibitionist chivalry and the hand that keeps straying around her waist, no matter how many times she pulls away.

And yet, there was a time when it would have thrilled her, to be courted by a wizard.

She is not best pleased when her lab mate Amit tromps over to her the following afternoon and says, "Samantha? There's a bloke waiting for you by the desk."

"Damn it, won't he leave me alone!" she mutters under her breath, turning down the flame on the Bunsen burner.

"It's not that one," Amit calls after her, loudly enough for half the room to hear. "It's a new guy—not as well set-up as the Frenchie, but he seems awfully keen—"

The man waiting by the front desk is tall, slender, fair-complexioned, and young. He wears a lab coat and a hairnet and squints at her so shortsightedly that she doubts he can recognize her face.

"Hello?"

"Samantha?"

"Put on your glasses," snaps Samanatha. "You can't see five feet without them, can you? And take off the hairnet. No one wears them unless they're actually in the process of handling something flammable."

"I thought it would be safer to come in disguise," says Percy petulantly, fishing his spectacles out of the pocket of his lab coat.

"The problem," says Samantha, "is that it _looks_ like a disguise. The Muggle clothing and," she adds, as he pulls off the hairnet, "the hair dye are probably enough. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you."

"They found her," murmurs Samantha, her heart sinking to the floor.

"No. I wanted to see_ you_. They hauled Flitwick in for questioning. . ."

"Flitwick . . ."

"Professor Flitwick is—"

"I know who Professor Flitwick is. But why?"

"Umbridge questioned him about several of his former students. She's angry because the Carrows—they're two new professors at Hogwarts—have been complaining that he's been 'uncooperative.' Ravenclaw has always had a higher-than-average incidence of Muggle-born students, and of course he met—well, the truth is, made a point of meeting—most of their parents. I gather he's been to your house?"

Samantha nods. "Only once, though. Years ago."

"Well, someone at the Ministry knew. Flitwick did his best. He testified that your parents were 'resistant to magic' and showed absolutely no curiosity on the subject. And he testified that your older siblings were seldom around, and that to the best of his belief, they were only minor figures in Penelope's life and knew practically nothing about Hogwarts . . ." Samantha nods. "He did his best for you, I'm sure. He's a very decent fellow—"

"What did he say?" interrupts Samantha.

"I—I don't know," says Percy. "But when I looked at the file—your name was circled and starred."

Samantha considers this information. "They let you see Penelope's file?"

"I—er—came in very early." Samantha raises her eyebrows. "Madam Umbridge used to have a magic eyeball embedded in the door of her private office," Percy explains, "but it was stolen in September, and since then her office has been broken into two or three times a week. It wasn't very hard to get tips—people want information, you know, a peek at their own files, or their friends', or their families'—has anything happened lately?"

Samantha grimaces.

"How's it working?" inquires Percy, pointing to the Sneakoscope on Samantha's wrist.

"Well," says Samantha, "it doesn't like the Ministry staffer who's been stalking me, that's for sure."

"_Stalking_ . . . Samantha?"

"His name is Jean-Benoit de Sangbleu. At least, that's what he told me."

Percy nods. "I've seen him at the Ministry—one of Umbridge's protégés—he was new this autumn. She hired a bunch of foreign wizards to take over jobs vacated by the Muggle-born." Percy hesitates. "Has he been harassing you?"

"Not exactly. He keeps waylaying me and taking me out for coffee and drinks. And, of course, asking me questions. I don't think he's gotten anything out of me. I just—don't like his—attitude."

"If you were my sister—"

"I'm not." So that's what I am, she thinks bitterly, a faux little sister. He has a sister of his own, but he's not speaking to her. Or am I a stand-in for Penelope?

"At least Ginny could land a good Bat-Bogey Hex on him if he got fresh—"

"I can take care of myself," retorts Samantha, with greater confidence than she feels.

"Pay attention to that Sneakoscope, okay?" says Percy. "It's top of the line."

"I thought you made it yourself."

"No," says Percy, blushing slightly. "I transfigured it to look like a Muggle object. But it was manufactured by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Part of their Dark Detector line."

"But," Samantha hesitates, remembering the frivolous little gifts Penelope once brought her from that very shop, "_your_ name is Weasley. Is it a family business?"

"It—no. It's my brothers' business. Fred and George. They're young, but they're the best wizards there are for that sort of thing. You can trust it."

"You've made up with them!" exclaims Samantha.

"Er—no."

"But if you went to your brothers' shop—surely . . ."

"No." Percy fidgets uncomfortably, running his hands into the pockets of his lab coat. "I did a few Appearance charms. Dark hair, no freckles, different nose. I even transfigured my glasses—just changed the color of the frames . . . and then I went at a busy time, and made sure it was their assistant, not either of them, who waited on me . . ."

"Percy . . ."

"I've been using Appearance Charms a good deal lately," explains Percy. "I tested them out when I went to Fred and George's shop, and then I refined them a bit when I went to the Post Office to send an anonymous owl to my father."

"Anonymous—owl—."

"To tell him that Umbridge had put the Trace on him. I looked at his file when I was in Umbridge's office. It's been fun, actually, doing the Appearance charms. First bit of fun I've had in about three years. Unfortunately, it's an awfully risky sort of fun."

"Percy—surely at a time like this . . ."

"Samantha, don't start in on me."

"People change in wartime. Their real personalities come out. My brother used to dig into Penelope all the time—he picked on her about the magic more than anyone did, even Dad—but now that's she's gone, he's all—"

"What?" demands Percy.

"All worried about her," finishes Samantha lamely. "Maybe it's just that I'm grown-up, but he's a much nicer person all of a sudden. He even—does things for me."

"Does what?" demands Percy.

"Nothing."

"Samantha!" says Percy sharply. "Do _not_ involve your brother in this. Don't you realize how dangerous it is to tell _any_ Muggle _anything_, in the current climate? The root cause of all of this violence is the contention that Muggles are stealing magic—"

"You involved _me_," points out Samantha. "You've given me magical objects, and put spells on my room, and told me all sorts of things I wouldn't have known—"

Percy has the grace to blush. "That's different. You were—already involved. The only way to uninvolve you would have been to modify your memory, and that carries its own risks. Penny talked about you at work—not much, but enough. It would look suspicious if you knew too little. So it seemed better to give you the full picture, and a little protection as well."

"'I am in blood/ stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,/ returning were as tedious as go o'er,'" mutters Samantha.

"Huh?" says Percy.

"_Macbeth_."

He stares, uncomprehending. "I don't want your brother's blood on my hands. Penny would never—"

"She'll thank you for protecting me," says Samantha bluntly. "If that's really what you're doing. I don't think she'll thank you for lying to Alan, or telling me to lie to Alan. Or giving him an unasked-for Memory Charm, so if that's what you're thinking, don't do it. Penelope loathes the Ministry's attitude towards Muggles. She always has. You call it protection, keeping us in ignorance, but it's two parts condescension to one part protection, and frankly, for all his faults, I think Penelope had more confidence in Alan than she had in you—" She breaks off.

"I know it's hard for you to trust me, Samantha," says Percy quietly. "But I'm worried about you. You've got to trust someone. Maybe it would have been better if you'd never known anything about magic, but it's too late for that now."

"Don't I know it," mutters Samantha, jamming her Sneakoscope-laden wrist into the pocket of her lab coat as a Nobel Prize-winning chemist saunters by and stares at them vaguely.

"I'll come see you again," murmurs Percy.

"Don't wear a hairnet," says Samantha, "and don't come to the lab."

He brushes her hand and walks off, down the long hygienic corridor. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead as she tries to calculate how much longer her experiment will take, how dark it will be when she gets out, whether Amit will walk her home, whether she could persuade Amit to pose as her boyfriend for a week or two in order to put off Sangbleu. It's all so devilishly complicated, the wheels within wheels, the disorderly human emotions that get entangled with the political intrigue, the petty personality conflicts, and all the things not said.

The Sneakoscope ticks companionably on her wrist.


	7. Chapter 7

-7-

As the chemistry-laden weeks go by, Samantha misses the magical world more and more. She was never much of a novel reader. Penelope's tales of Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, and the Ministry were her fantasy world, her playground, her escape hatch, for nine years—her only tantalizing brush with the irrational. Fondling the Sneakoscope, shoving the mysterious compact still deeper into the chaos of her lingerie drawer, she wonders how risky it would have been if Penelope had let her keep her copies of _Hogwarts, A History_ and _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_, transfigured perhaps to look like Muggle novels, or science textbooks. Penelope's bonfire notwithstanding, the war has left Samantha more, not less, entangled with the magical world, and she thinks she might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.

Very early one Sunday morning, the telephone rings. She picks it up. "Samantha?" inquires a man's voice.

"P—P—you?" she gasps. She is happier than she thought she'd be, to hear his voice again.

"I'm using a kell-ool-ar felly-tone. It's bizarre."

"Yes," agrees Samantha, smiling at this image.

"D'you actually use these things everyday?" he inquires, and she realizes that he meant not that his use of a cellular telephone was bizarre, but rather that the cellular telephone itself was bizarre.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in the bathroom on your landing. I couldn't come directly into your room, on account of the wards."

"I'll be right there," says Samantha, slamming down the receiver. She smuggles him down the stairs—he's Disillusioned again—and locks the door behind him. Percy taps his head with his wand, resumes his ordinary appearance, and takes possession of her desk chair. Samantha sits cross-legged, facing him, on the unmade bed.

"It's great to see you, Percy, but—why are you here?"

"I wanted to check on you."

"Percy?" He smiles silently. "Don't insult my intelligence. It's dangerous for you to be here, whatever the hour and however Disillusioned. You wouldn't have come for no reason."

"Someone laid information."

"Yes?"

"She's supposed to be involved in—well . . . did she ever mention Dirk Cresswell?"

"Dirk Cresswell?"

"He was in the Goblin Liaison Office. He's been on the run since September, and he's another person that Umbridge can't trace. Did Penny ever mention him?"

"No."

"Hmm," says Percy. "Did she ever mention Ted Tonks?"

"No."

"Just as well," mutters Percy.

"Is he another Ministry staffer on the run?"

"Not Ministry, no. Just a Muggle-born wizard. But he has links to several people on the Undesirable list, and I think they're planning to take him out."

"Take him off the list?"

"No," says Percy dully. "Take him out."

"Murder him, you mean," says Samantha, wishing that, just once in his life, Percy would call a spade a spade.

"Yes. I hope Penny doesn't know him. He wouldn't be very safe—what about Kingsley Shacklebolt?"

"She knows Kingsley," says Samantha.

Percy does a double-take. "What—in the Auror Office?"

"Yes. He used to pass her a bit of information from time to time. Things that didn't make it into the _Daily Prophet_." Percy removes his horn-rimmed spectacles and wipes his brow. "Is he on the list of Undesirables?"

"He's number four." Percy hesitates. "You don't think—Penny would cooperate—or join him, if she were in trouble—"

"I don't . . ." Samantha trails off, remembering her last conversation with Penelope, back in August. The blank identity cards. "What was Kingsley Shacklebolt doing, before he went underground?"

"He was protecting the Muggle prime minister."

Things fall into place. Except— "She said she was going abroad," says Samantha firmly. "She left the first week of August, and she said she was going abroad."

"Is Sangbleu still stalking you?"

"Yes."

"It's a good sign, you know," he says mournfully. "I'm terribly sorry about it, but it's a good sign. They're baffled. That's why they keep questioning people, and harassing you, and spreading rumors that Penny joined the Order—" He hesitates. "I assume you would tell me if she had joined the Order?"

"I might," says Samantha.

"So you know what the Order is," says Percy, eying her warily. "I always wondered."

So Jean-Benoit's not the only one who can lay snares for the careless tongue. Samantha shifts uncomfortably and looks away. It's quite true that she's not telling Percy the full truth, it's just that the things she's concealing are not the things he thinks they are . . . and she's sorry to hurt him, but not so sorry as to give up her last reserves. She's so tired of this game of shuttlecock, so abominably tired of being buffeted between two inquisitive young wizards, neither of whose motives is entirely transparent. Penelope didn't want her to trust Percy, Penelope certainly didn't envision that she'd be receiving incognito visits from a Disillusioned Percy at 7 a.m. on Sunday morning and accepting magical gifts from him, but Penelope's instructions are three months out of date, and Percy is clearly the lesser of two evils. She would not care to be abandoned to the sole company of Sangbleu.

"Your father's in the Order," says Samantha conversationally. "If the political situation is as you say it is, then why is he still at large?"

"Thicknesse and Umbridge are using him to get to Harry and Hermione," says Percy quietly. "As soon as they do, they'll assassinate him. Or, if pureblood pride prevails, send him to Azkaban, which isn't much preferable."

She has never heard him speak so bluntly. Maybe he has a better command of the situation than she realized. "Have you warned him?" she asks. "Another anonymous owl?"

Percy shrugs. "Is it worth the risk? His contacts are better than mine. I assume he already knows. Samantha—"

"Yes?"

"A lot of people are going into hiding now. Not just Muggle-born witches and wizards. Muggles, too. Entire families. If you want to disappear—"

"Skive off, you mean," says Samantha. "Abandon everyone."

"That's not what you said when your sister left," points out Percy.

Well, no. But she has thought it once or twice, in the months since her sister left. She didn't realize quite how thoroughly Penelope intended to vanish, nor for how long, nor how much she and her parents would be seeing of the Ministry's oily representatives in Penelope's absence. She's not feeling particularly well-used. But given that she's not telling anyone the full truth about her life these days, that there is no longer anyone within reach who is fully in her confidence, it seems quite possible that Penelope's decision to abandon her was based on more than she chose to divulge . . . and in any case, whatever risks Samantha is facing, Penelope is surely facing greater ones.

"I could help you," says Percy. She is silent. "Or, if you don't want my help, I could put you in touch with other people who could help you." They regard each other, across the piled lab notes and the concert programs and the tousled sheets of the unmade bed, sizing each other up like mutually hostile cats bent on a common enterprise. "Even the Order," says Percy. "I'm not telling you what to do. But—well, I could help."

"I'm not going into hiding," says Samantha slowly, "but if I were, I would probably ask you to help." She realizes, as she says it, that this is a very equivocal declaration of friendship, but it seems to please Percy. "I don't care for espionage," she announces after a minute. "Or even politics. I like chemistry. Chemistry and math. And sometimes writing stories."

Percy smiles ruefully and for a moment she sees a glint in his eye that must be, she thinks, what Penelope saw, all those years ago. "You're so much like your sister," he says, with astonishing tenderness. "You look like her, and you sound like her too."

"I'm not her, though," says the girl on the bed. "My name is Samantha."

"I know," he says gently. "Can I do anything for you?"

"News," says Samantha. "I need news."

"No, you don't," says Percy. "Reading the _Prophet_ would just depress you—most of the media outlets have gone over—"

"Don't patronize me," retorts Samantha. "I can discern a biased source just as well as you. There's nothing worse than not knowing. The Muggle media doesn't report anything until the people are already dead."

"Well," says Percy grimly. "Well—is this a radio?"

"It's a clock radio."

"Muggle radios tell the time?"

"Some do."

"Bizarre," mutters Percy, jabbing the device with his wand. "Fascinating, but bizarre." After a couple minutes he looks up and says, "All right, then. The AM setting is tuned to Wizarding Wireless. Don't listen to it too much, though, okay? It isn't good for morale."

He Disillusions himself. She escorts him to the bathroom. He disapparates. Samantha lingers by the mirror. Standing on tiptoe, tumbling dark curls into her face, pulling her dressing gown about her like wizarding robes and plumping her breasts up a bit, she realizes with a jolt that a casual observer might quite easily mistake her for Penelope. The resemblance is stronger than ever, right down to the stricken expression, and the dark circles that ring her eyes.

When she comes home from the phys. chem. lab two evenings later, through the dark November night, there is a book in her pigeon hole, a dog-eared paperback copy of _The Story of Philosophy_. It's so subtle, so simple, just the sort of the thing she might have borrowed from a friend, except that she never did. She hugs it to her closely as she steals across the quad. She waves it by the Sneakoscope, which of course registers nothing. In her bedsit, behind locked doors, Samantha shakes out the binding and slowly turns each of the dog-eared pages. On p. 202 she finds it, a thinly penciled message: "9 P.M. 94.3 AM/WW hippogriff word changes daily try tonight. Hermes."

Three years ago? Four years? It's like a message from another lifetime. But Samantha knew Hermes. She knows who sent the package. She doesn't know for certain whether it's safe. There is, as Penelope would say, such a thing as the Imperius Curse. And there is also such a thing as treachery, and double-dealing. She is not absolutely certain that, if Penelope were here, Penelope would want her to tune the radio dial. But Penelope isn't here.

She used to think she had secrets. At Roedean, when she couldn't say her sister was a witch, when she couldn't publish her Pigspots stories in the lit. mag. The lies she told about her sister's Highland boarding school. At Oxford now, there is no one who knows she has two sisters instead of one.

She used to long for contact with the wizarding world. On her rare visits to Diagon Alley, she smiled surreptitiously at the teenage boys in Eeylops Owl Emporium, and she thought, wouldn't it be lovely . . . Now she prays fervently that every man she meets not be a wizard. She couldn't handle another one. Yet she has grown dependent on the two she knows . . . and distasteful though she finds Jean-Benoit, his disappearance would not be an encouraging sign.

She used to think she missed Penelope. She used to feel neglected if she went a week without a letter. Now she doesn't know where Penelope is. (Corsica? Mali? Vietnam?) She doesn't know whether she's alive or dead. It has been 119 days since she last saw Penelope. She tots up the tally in her head, as she tosses a throw pillow against the wall and clicks on the radio.

Huddled in a woolen jumper, crouched over the wireless, with one eye trained on the third hand of Percy's Sneakoscope and the other, through curse-proof windows, on the inky night, Samantha listens disconsolately to _Potterwatch_.


End file.
